


Unexpected But Not Unwanted

by Desdimonda



Category: StarCraft
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Two Parter, tending a wound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artanis returns from battle with a wound he tries to hide; Alarak is not fooled and sets out to confront the Heirarch and tend to his wound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected But Not Unwanted

Each step grew heavier as Artanis walked the corridors of the Spear of Adun. 

He walked alone, but people moved around him in a blur, in a constant haze. Zealots walking quickly as they rushed to prepare for battle; technicians talking animatedly together as they ascended to the lower decks to converse with Karax and Fenix; Templars gliding past, often alone, nodding at their Heirarch wordlessly.

The noise that surrounded Artanis was different now that they no longer possessed their nerve cords. Gone was the constant melody of the Khala, the comforting words of friends, the calls from afar, the questions that could be answered without looking at ones face. But all of that was no more; inside his head there was quiet, there was peace. All around him now there was a different melody, the noise of words, the animated arms of discussion, the faces before faces, the flicker of questioned eyes, the shimmer of crests that used to be so easily hidden.

Within the Khala, you could not hide your thoughts, your emotions, your words. But now with it gone, there was a different layer of exposure that was new to the Daelaam. The flicker of ones eyes when one said something; the dip of ones head; the cross of arms; the colour change of their crest. The change had been sudden and painful, but he could not fault his people for their strength against adversity.

And it was that new level of exposure that Artanis was desperately trying to hide with each laboured step he took along the corridor to his quarters. He stood upright, trying to seem at ease. The pain seared across his stomach and hip; he could feel the blood pooling beneath his armour. It was cracked; broken; sliced, but he hid the damage with his arm and a cloak he had borrowed from a fallen Templar. It was already damp with his blood.

Artanis waved a weary hand before the door to his quarters and it hissed open on his command. He stepped inside and at once, faltered, dropping the cloak to the floor, wet with blood. His hand was stained purple and he swore quietly to himself as he begun to unfasten his once gleaming armour. Gone were the days when freedom of movement was preferable to the protection that this gaudy, gleaming statement of honour granted Artanis. 

Zeratul, he thought, glancing at his old mentor’s bracer, you would laugh at me now. Even all this armour could not protect me.

His armour met the floor, piece by piece, sending a sharp crash through the silent air. Artanis had lost the strength and desire to care about it and anything much else since he stepped through the door to his room, alone. Their fight was wavering, their allies were few. Shakuras was gone, Vorazun was withdrawing into herself and Rohana was refusing to sever he cords. And everyone looked to him, to Artanis, for answers.

Not today. Not tonight. Not now.

Artanis rolled his shoulders and shook his head, expecting to feel the comforting brush of his cords; but he felt nothing. He ran a hand over the severed ends, remembering the moment Zeratul had freed him. Artanis touched the bracer he still wore and carefully slid it off and placed it on his bed that had lain undisturbed for days.

‘You are bleeding all over the floor.’

Artanis didn’t turn, but touched the wound above his hip that extended to his stomach. He only wore his adorned belt and decorated cloth that hung from his waist now. The pieces of his armour lay scattered around his feet. 

‘How astute of you, Alarak,’ said Artanis as he tried to stem the bleeding with his hand.

‘Do you not wish the people to see that their Heirarch can bleed?’ said Alarak as he stepped inside and waved the door closed with a hand. ‘Do you think they will see you as weak?’

‘Do you not already?’ said Artanis as he turned away from Alarak. He sought the small medipac that hovered by the wall.

‘Yes. But not because you bleed.’ Alarak said slowly as he navigated gracefully over the scattered pieces of armour, some broken, some bloody. The red swathe of his outfit rippled behind him as he walked, catching the dim lights of Artanis’s room. He stopped behind the Heirarch and folded his arms. 

Artanis said nothing and continued to empty the medipac. ‘What do you want, Alarak? To gloat? To mock me?’

‘Always,’ said Alarak, taking a step forward as Artanis dropped a handful of supplies. The Heirarch swore, trying to disguise a bite of pain. ‘Tomorrow is my Rak’Shir.’

Artanis turned to Alarak, his hands full of the supplies from the medipac. 

‘And I need you,’ said Alarak, pausing a foot away from the Heirarch. ‘I need you tomorrow at your best to support me.’ Alarak took the supplies from Artanis’s hands and discarded all to the floor but a salve and bandage. ‘Just like we agreed, Heirarch.’

Artanis watched Alarak as he spoke, as he moved. He moved smooth, elegant, as if nothing bothered him, as if all that weighed on him was the armour that he wore. His eyes, red as Terran blood, as red as the decadent material that flowed from his waist and skimmed at his heels, flickered as he spoke. His crest never showed its colour; Alarak showed nothing unless he desired. The world knelt for him; and Alarak knelt for no-one.

‘It is mostly superficial,’ said Alarak as he placed a hand on Artanis’s belt, his fingers gliding along the flat of his stomach. Artanis tensed at the Tal’darim’s touch; it was unexpected, new, but not wholly unwanted. Alarak took hold of the cloth that hung between his legs and tore a large section off, then split that piece in two. ‘Clean your hands, Heirarch, you are a mess,’ he said whilst dousing the cloth in the salve.

Without warning, Alarak pressed a hand onto Artanis’s chest and pushed him to the wall with a thud. ‘Keep still,’ ordered Alarak as he retracted his claws, letting the tips of his fingers sink into Artanis’s flesh. 

‘Do you play medic with all your enemies?’ goaded Artanis as Alarak began to clean up the wound with the cloth, gently wiping away the purple stains of blood before pressing the salve drenched cloth against the would to clot the flow. Alarak looked up, his red eyes bright with mirth.

‘We are not enemies, Artanis.’

‘No? We are hardly friends,’ he said, feeling Alarak’s hand slide further up his chest. The tips of his fingers brushed across his shoulders. Artanis dropped the blood stained rag in his hands and clenched his fist, fighting the response of his body. 

‘Allies, perhaps,’ said Alarak as his fingers slid along the slant of Artanis’s collar bone.

‘More like tools to be used,’ said Artanis, wincing as Alarak pressed harder against his wound.

‘At least you are useful,’ said Alarak slowly as he leaned closer, letting his hand slide down Artanis’s chest. He picked up the bandage and began to unravel it as he cleaned the last of the blood from Artanis’s stomach. ‘You know the drill. Keep it covered with the salve in place and it should be healed by the time I am Highlord.’

‘Would you ever consider us as allies - as friends?’ said Artanis as Alarak began to wind the bandage around Artanis’s stomach. 

Alarak leaned in close with each motion, brushing his face against the severed nerve cords of the Heirarch. He could feel Artanis’s power, his energy, his essence hover from the severed tendrils as he leaned close. A shiver rippled across Alarak’s skin as he tasted the power of the Heirarch, of the Protoss before him, submitted, weak, defenceless, at his mercy. ‘Friends?’ he said. ‘Is that all?’

Artanis tensed as Alarak tucked the bandage by his side, his fingers gliding across his skin purposefully, touching places they needn’t, but wanted. The Tal’darim was but an inch away, towering over the Heirarch as he slid both hands up Artanis’s bare chest, shoulders and around his neck. ‘What do you mean…all?’ stuttered Artanis.

Alarak smirked. ‘Are you pleading ignorance through youth or stupidity? Whatever it is, I find it oddly endearing,’ said Alarak, drawing his fingers through the braids that hung at the side of Artanis’s face. He leaned close, almost until their crests touched. Alarak felt Artanis arch his back in response. ‘When you figure out what I mean, come and find me,’ and with his last word, he stepped back, drawing his hands down the Heirarchs chest, slowly.

But Artanis did not wait.

He reached forward and pulled the Tal’darim to him, his hands cupping Alarak’s face, desperately. Their crests touched, both shimmering a deep hue of red that echoed the swathe of desire that rippled beneath their skin. 

Alarak smirked and slid a hand around Artanis’s back as the Heirarch hooked a leg around the Taldarim’s thigh, pressing their bodies together as close as he could. 

‘Found you,’ whispered Artanis, clawing at the Tal’darim’s armour.


End file.
